Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (336 page)

‘And,’ I asked, ‘does old Nancy ever inquire about me?’

‘Yes; and we tell her you are so fond of reading and drawing that you can do nothing else.’

‘That is not the case though; if you had told her I was so busy I could not come to see her, it would have been nearer the truth.’

‘I don’t think it would,’ replied Miss Murray, suddenly kindling up; ‘I’m sure you have plenty of time to yourself now, when you have so little teaching to do.’

It was no use beginning to dispute with such indulged, unreasoning creatures: so I held my peace.  I was accustomed, now, to keeping silence when things distasteful to my ear were uttered; and now, too, I was used to wearing a placid smiling countenance when my heart was bitter within me.  Only those who have felt the like can imagine my feelings, as I sat with an assumption of smiling indifference, listening to the accounts of those meetings and interviews with Mr. Weston, which they seemed to find such pleasure in describing to me; and hearing things asserted of him which, from the character of the man, I knew to be exaggerations and perversions of the truth, if not entirely false — things derogatory to him, and flattering to them — especially to Miss Murray — which I burned to contradict, or, at least, to show my doubts about, but dared not; lest, in expressing my disbelief, I should display my interest too.  Other things I heard, which I felt or feared were indeed too true: but I must still conceal my anxiety respecting him, my indignation against them, beneath a careless aspect; others, again, mere hints of something said or done, which I longed to hear more of, but could not venture to inquire.  So passed the weary time.  I could not even comfort myself with saying, ‘She will soon be married; and then there may be hope.’

Soon after her marriage the holidays would come; and when I returned from home, most likely, Mr. Weston would be gone, for I was told that he and the Rector could not agree (the Rector’s fault, of course), and he was about to remove to another place.

No — besides my hope in God, my only consolation was in thinking that, though he know it not, I was more worthy of his love than Rosalie Murray, charming and engaging as she was; for I could appreciate his excellence, which she could not: I would devote my life to the promotion of his happiness; she would destroy his happiness for the momentary gratification of her own vanity.  ‘Oh, if he could but know the difference!’  I would earnestly exclaim.  ‘But no!  I would not have him see my heart: yet, if he could but know her hollowness, her worthless, heartless frivolity, he would then be safe, and I should be —
almost
happy, though I might never see him more!’

I fear, by this time, the reader is well nigh disgusted with the folly and weakness I have so freely laid before him.  I never disclosed it then, and would not have done so had my own sister or my mother been with me in the house.  I was a close and resolute dissembler — in this one case at least.  My prayers, my tears, my wishes, fears, and lamentations, were witnessed by myself and heaven alone.

When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long oppressed by any powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can obtain and seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we cannot, or will not wholly crush, we often naturally seek relief in poetry — and often find it, too — whether in the effusions of others, which seem to harmonize with our existing case, or in our own attempts to give utterance to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical, perchance, but more appropriate, and therefore more penetrating and sympathetic, and, for the time, more soothing, or more powerful to rouse and to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart.  Before this time, at Wellwood House and here, when suffering from home-sick melancholy, I had sought relief twice or thrice at this secret source of consolation; and now I flew to it again, with greater avidity than ever, because I seemed to need it more.  I still preserve those relics of past sufferings and experience, like pillars of witness set up in travelling through the vale of life, to mark particular occurrences.  The footsteps are obliterated now; the face of the country may be changed; but the pillar is still there, to remind me how all things were when it was reared.  Lest the reader should be curious to see any of these effusions, I will favour him with one short specimen: cold and languid as the lines may seem, it was almost a passion of grief to which they owed their being: —

Oh, they have robbed me of the hope
   My spirit held so dear;
They will not let me hear that voice
   My soul delights to hear.

They will not let me see that face
   I so delight to see;
And they have taken all thy smiles,
   And all thy love from me.

Well, let them seize on all they can; —
   One treasure still is mine, —
A heart that loves to think on thee,
   And feels the worth of thine.

Yes, at least, they could not deprive me of that: I could think of him day and night; and I could feel that he was worthy to be thought of.  Nobody knew him as I did; nobody could appreciate him as I did; nobody could love him as I — could, if I might: but there was the evil.  What business had I to think so much of one that never thought of me?  Was it not foolish? was it not wrong?  Yet, if I found such deep delight in thinking of him, and if I kept those thoughts to myself, and troubled no one else with them, where was the harm of it? I would ask myself.  And such reasoning prevented me from making any sufficient effort to shake off my fetters.

But, if those thoughts brought delight, it was a painful, troubled pleasure, too near akin to anguish; and one that did me more injury than I was aware of.  It was an indulgence that a person of more wisdom or more experience would doubtless have denied herself.  And yet, how dreary to turn my eyes from the contemplation of that bright object and force them to dwell on the dull, grey, desolate prospect around: the joyless, hopeless, solitary path that lay before me.  It was wrong to be so joyless, so desponding; I should have made God my friend, and to do His will the pleasure and the business of my life; but faith was weak, and passion was too strong.

In this time of trouble I had two other causes of affliction.  The first may seem a trifle, but it cost me many a tear: Snap, my little dumb, rough-visaged, but bright-eyed, warm-hearted companion, the only thing I had to love me, was taken away, and delivered over to the tender mercies of the village rat-catcher, a man notorious for his brutal treatment of his canine slaves.  The other was serious enough; my letters from home gave intimation that my father’s health was worse.  No boding fears were expressed, but I was grown timid and despondent, and could not help fearing that some dreadful calamity awaited us there.  I seemed to see the black clouds gathering round my native hills, and to hear the angry muttering of a storm that was about to burst, and desolate our hearth.

CHAPTER XVIII — MIRTH AND MOURNING

The 1st of June arrived at last: and Rosalie Murray was transmuted into Lady Ashby.  Most splendidly beautiful she looked in her bridal costume.  Upon her return from church, after the ceremony, she came flying into the schoolroom, flushed with excitement, and laughing, half in mirth, and half in reckless desperation, as it seemed to me.

‘Now, Miss Grey, I’m Lady Ashby!’ she exclaimed.  ‘It’s done, my fate is sealed: there’s no drawing back now.  I’m come to receive your congratulations and bid you good-by; and then I’m off for Paris, Rome, Naples, Switzerland, London — oh, dear! what a deal I shall see and hear before I come back again.  But don’t forget me: I shan’t forget you, though I’ve been a naughty girl.  Come, why don’t you congratulate me?’

‘I cannot congratulate you,’ I replied, ‘till I know whether this change is really for the better: but I sincerely hope it is; and I wish you true happiness and the best of blessings.’

‘Well, good-by, the carriage is waiting, and they’re calling me.’

She gave me a hasty kiss, and was hurrying away; but, suddenly returning, embraced me with more affection than I thought her capable of evincing, and departed with tears in her eyes.  Poor girl!  I really loved her then; and forgave her from my heart all the injury she had done me — and others also: she had not half known it, I was sure; and I prayed God to pardon her too.

During the remainder of that day of festal sadness, I was left to my own devices.  Being too much unhinged for any steady occupation, I wandered about with a book in my hand for several hours, more thinking than reading, for I had many things to think about.  In the evening, I made use of my liberty to go and see my old friend Nancy once again; to apologize for my long absence (which must have seemed so neglectful and unkind) by telling her how busy I had been; and to talk, or read, or work for her, whichever might be most acceptable, and also, of course, to tell her the news of this important day: and perhaps to obtain a little information from her in return, respecting Mr. Weston’s expected departure.  But of this she seemed to know nothing, and I hoped, as she did, that it was all a false report.  She was very glad to see me; but, happily, her eyes were now so nearly well that she was almost independent of my services.  She was deeply interested in the wedding; but while I amused her with the details of the festive day, the splendours of the bridal party and of the bride herself, she often sighed and shook her head, and wished good might come of it; she seemed, like me, to regard it rather as a theme for sorrow than rejoicing.  I sat a long time talking to her about that and other things — but no one came.

Shall I confess that I sometimes looked towards the door with a half-expectant wish to see it open and give entrance to Mr. Weston, as had happened once before? and that, returning through the lanes and fields, I often paused to look round me, and walked more slowly than was at all necessary — for, though a fine evening, it was not a hot one — and, finally, felt a sense of emptiness and disappointment at having reached the house without meeting or even catching a distant glimpse of any one, except a few labourers returning from their work?

Sunday, however, was approaching: I should see him then: for now that Miss Murray was gone, I could have my old corner again.  I should see him, and by look, speech, and manner, I might judge whether the circumstance of her marriage had very much afflicted him.  Happily I could perceive no shadow of a difference: he wore the same aspect as he had worn two months ago — voice, look, manner, all alike unchanged: there was the same keen-sighted, unclouded truthfulness in his discourse, the same forcible clearness in his style, the same earnest simplicity in all he said and did, that made itself, not marked by the eye and ear, but felt upon the hearts of his audience.

I walked home with Miss Matilda; but
he did not join us
.  Matilda was now sadly at a loss for amusement, and wofully in want of a companion: her brothers at school, her sister married and gone, she too young to be admitted into society; for which, from Rosalie’s example, she was in some degree beginning to acquire a taste — a taste at least for the company of certain classes of gentlemen; at this dull time of year — no hunting going on, no shooting even — for, though she might not join in that, it was
something
to see her father or the gamekeeper go out with the dogs, and to talk with them on their return, about the different birds they had bagged.  Now, also, she was denied the solace which the companionship of the coachman, grooms, horses, greyhounds, and pointers might have afforded; for her mother having, notwithstanding the disadvantages of a country life, so satisfactorily disposed of her elder daughter, the pride of her heart had begun seriously to turn her attention to the younger; and, being truly alarmed at the roughness of her manners, and thinking it high time to work a reform, had been roused at length to exert her authority, and prohibited entirely the yards, stables, kennels, and coach-house.  Of course, she was not implicitly obeyed; but, indulgent as she had hitherto been, when once her spirit was roused, her temper was not so gentle as she required that of her governesses to be, and her will was not to be thwarted with impunity.  After many a scene of contention between mother and daughter, many a violent outbreak which I was ashamed to witness, in which the father’s authority was often called in to confirm with oaths and threats the mother’s slighted prohibitions — for even
he
could see that ‘Tilly, though she would have made a fine lad, was not quite what a young lady ought to be’ — Matilda at length found that her easiest plan was to keep clear of the forbidden regions; unless she could now and then steal a visit without her watchful mother’s knowledge.

Amid all this, let it not be imagined that I escaped without many a reprimand, and many an implied reproach, that lost none of its sting from not being openly worded; but rather wounded the more deeply, because, from that very reason, it seemed to preclude self-defence.  Frequently, I was told to amuse Miss Matilda with other things, and to remind her of her mother’s precepts and prohibitions.  I did so to the best of my power: but she would not be amused against her will, and could not against her taste; and though I went beyond mere reminding, such gentle remonstrances as I could use were utterly ineffectual.

‘
Dear
Miss Grey! it is the
strangest
thing.  I suppose you can’t help it, if it’s not in your nature — but I
wonder
you can’t win the confidence of that girl, and make your society at
least
as agreeable to her as that of Robert or Joseph!’

‘They can talk the best about the things in which she is most interested,’ I replied.

‘Well! that is a strange confession,
however
, to come from her
governess
!  Who is to form a young lady’s tastes, I wonder, if the governess doesn’t do it?  I have known governesses who have so completely identified themselves with the reputation of their young ladies for elegance and propriety in mind and manners, that they would blush to speak a word against them; and to hear the slightest blame imputed to their pupils was worse than to be censured in their own persons — and I really think it very natural, for my part.’

‘Do you, ma’am?’

‘Yes, of course: the young lady’s proficiency and elegance is of more consequence to the governess than her own, as well as to the world.  If she wishes to prosper in her vocation she must devote all her energies to her business: all her ideas and all her ambition will tend to the accomplishment of that one object.  When we wish to decide upon the merits of a governess, we naturally look at the young ladies she professes to have educated, and judge accordingly.  The
judicious
governess knows this: she knows that, while she lives in obscurity herself, her pupils’ virtues and defects will be open to every eye; and that, unless she loses sight of herself in their cultivation, she need not hope for success.  You see, Miss Grey, it is just the same as any other trade or profession: they that wish to prosper must devote themselves body and soul to their calling; and if they begin to yield to indolence or self-indulgence they are speedily distanced by wiser competitors: there is little to choose between a person that ruins her pupils by neglect, and one that corrupts them by her example.  You will excuse my dropping these little hints: you know it is all for your own good.  Many ladies would speak to you much more strongly; and many would not trouble themselves to speak at all, but quietly look out for a substitute.  That, of course, would be the
easiest
plan: but I know the advantages of a place like this to a person in your situation; and I have no desire to part with you, as I am sure you would do very well if you will only think of these things and try to exert yourself a
little
more: then, I am convinced, you would
soon
acquire that delicate tact which alone is wanting to give you a proper influence over the mind of your pupil.’

I was about to give the lady some idea of the fallacy of her expectations; but she sailed away as soon as she had concluded her speech.  Having said what she wished, it was no part of her plan to await my answer: it was my business to hear, and not to speak.

However, as I have said, Matilda at length yielded in some degree to her mother’s authority (pity it had not been exerted before); and being thus deprived of almost every source of amusement, there was nothing for it but to take long rides with the groom and long walks with the governess, and to visit the cottages and farmhouses on her father’s estate, to kill time in chatting with the old men and women that inhabited them.  In one of these walks, it was our chance to meet Mr. Weston.  This was what I had long desired; but now, for a moment, I wished either he or I were away: I felt my heart throb so violently that I dreaded lest some outward signs of emotion should appear; but I think he hardly glanced at me, and I was soon calm enough.  After a brief salutation to both, he asked Matilda if she had lately heard from her sister.

‘Yes,’ replied she.  ‘She was at Paris when she wrote, and very well, and very happy.’

She spoke the last word emphatically, and with a glance impertinently sly.  He did not seem to notice it, but replied, with equal emphasis, and very seriously —

‘I hope she will continue to be so.’

‘Do you think it likely?’ I ventured to inquire: for Matilda had started off in pursuit of her dog, that was chasing a leveret.

‘I cannot tell,’ replied he.  ‘Sir Thomas may be a better man than I suppose; but, from all I have heard and seen, it seems a pity that one so young and gay, and — and interesting, to express many things by one word — whose greatest, if not her only fault, appears to be thoughtlessness — no trifling fault to be sure, since it renders the possessor liable to almost every other, and exposes him to so many temptations — but it seems a pity that she should be thrown away on such a man.  It was her mother’s wish, I suppose?’

‘Yes; and her own too, I think, for she always laughed at my attempts to dissuade her from the step.’

‘You did attempt it?  Then, at least, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that it is no fault of yours, if any harm should come of it.  As for Mrs. Murray, I don’t know how she can justify her conduct: if I had sufficient acquaintance with her, I’d ask her.’

‘It seems unnatural: but some people think rank and wealth the chief good; and, if they can secure that for their children, they think they have done their duty.’

‘True: but is it not strange that persons of experience, who have been married themselves, should judge so falsely?’  Matilda now came panting back, with the lacerated body of the young hare in her hand.

‘Was it your intention to kill that hare, or to save it, Miss Murray?’ asked Mr. Weston, apparently puzzled at her gleeful countenance.

‘I pretended to want to save it,’ she answered, honestly enough, ‘as it was so glaringly out of season; but I was better pleased to see it lolled.  However, you can both witness that I couldn’t help it: Prince was determined to have her; and he clutched her by the back, and killed her in a minute!  Wasn’t it a noble chase?’

‘Very! for a young lady after a leveret.’

There was a quiet sarcasm in the tone of his reply which was not lost upon her; she shrugged her shoulders, and, turning away with a significant ‘Humph!’ asked me how I had enjoyed the fun.  I replied that I saw no fun in the matter; but admitted that I had not observed the transaction very narrowly.

‘Didn’t you see how it doubled — just like an old hare? and didn’t you hear it scream?’

‘I’m happy to say I did not.’

‘It cried out just like a child.’

‘Poor little thing!  What will you do with it?’